


The Letter

by rainproof



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Fluff, Gen, Pre-Hogwarts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-21
Updated: 2012-12-21
Packaged: 2017-11-21 22:34:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,352
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/602823
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rainproof/pseuds/rainproof
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It felt like the Letter would <i>never</i> come.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Letter

**Author's Note:**

> Written for a Hogwarts_Elite contest prompt, many moons ago. We all know where Harry was when he received his Letter, but he wasn't the only child waiting that summer.
> 
> shameless Neville fluff!

The letter, if there was one, was most certainly late. 

“They’re never late,” Gran had scolded. “You’re not eleven yet, and your letter arrives _when you turn eleven._ Quit chasing every owl you see flying overhead, you silly boy!”

As the summer days dragged on, slow and languid in their sunlit hours and brief in starry nights, Neville Longbottom grew more and more anxious until his nerves prevented him from thinking on anything else. His preoccupation was complete--with each owl that arrived he found himself holding his breath, hoping Gran would call him in and hand him the package he’d waited so desperately for. He took to keeping a window open whenever he was indoors, just to ensure that any incoming owls wouldn’t be kept waiting in the heat. 

He lay in bed each night (with the windows open, again, in case of late delivery), letting the warm summer breeze ruffle his hair as he stared at the ceiling and let his thoughts roam over familiar trails. When would it be delivered--or would it be delivered at all? What color would the envelope be? Thick? Thin? Would it be sealed? They didn’t send rejection letters, did they? (“Of course not,” Gran had admonished him when he aired this concern at dinner--they certainly wouldn’t send out hundreds of rejection letters to each eleven year old muggle or squib child! When she put it that way, Neville felt foolish for asking.)

Still, he couldn’t help but worry. What if he wasn’t set to receive one--what would Gran do if he turned out to be a squib?

That was the worst thought of all. If he turned out to be a squib, a disappointment to their family… how many times had he been approached by strangers simply because of his name and the sacrifice his parents had (unwillingly) made? How many enthusiastic family friends had suggested they were watching him, expecting great talent from his family name…? Neville suppressed a shudder and rolled over, wrapping himself in his thin sheet despite the oppressive heat. His birthday was in a few short days... All he wanted was that letter and nothing more.

Every morning he woke up early and practiced writing. Gran insisted that his script was miserable, and Hogwarts professors would surely need a spell’s assistance to decipher his meaning. Just in case the letter came, he had better be ready, hadn’t he? Initially he copied out sentences from family spell books, cookbooks, or photo albums; however, as the summer stretched on, he began drafting letters to himself, spelling out in flowery prose exactly what he imagined the letter would say. After lunch, his time was his own, and he spent as much of it outdoors as possible, away from the stuffy kitchen and taupe-colored study.

While Gran was out in the afternoons, having apparated to her knitting club or disappeared on frequent shopping trips, Neville would slip out of the house and roam around the backyard. The family gardens extended to a low line of hedges--wide, well-trimmed bushes that remained a dull fir-green despite the dry heat. Neville found them a good refuge when he needed time to think--Gran couldn’t see through their thick leaves, but they remained close enough to the house that he could quickly reappear when dinner was hot.

Three days before his birthday, Neville was safely cloistered away beneath the hedge, a book under one arm and two apples in his pocket. As per his usual practice, he kicked off his shoes and wriggled his toes in the crisp grass. This was one of his favorite spots, where the cool ground beneath the bushes sunk downwards and was carpeted with moss. He couldn’t quite sit up in his little fortress, but he could certainly lay comfortably and stare at the lazy through the leaves, or prop up his book and read the afternoon away. 

On this particular day, he didn’t quite realize he was drifting off to sleep until a strange sound woke him--a sort of low, irritated cooing and the rustle of branches. Neville opened his eyes to find the sky blotted out by a dark shape. He started to jump up, forgetting for a brief moment where he had been sleeping--and received a face full of scratches and prickles for his trouble. He batted at the branches, tears prickling in his eyes, the realized he was doing battle with his favorite hedge and sighed rather sheepishly.

Quickly, Neville crawled to the opposite side of the hedge and turned to face whatever creature had landed in the bush--the mass of feathers and impatient calls shivered, squirmed, and finally lay still. Realization struck him suddenly.

“An owl!”

Neville leapt inwards, ignoring the scratches and cuts the sharp branches left on his arms and hands, as he gently disentangled the exhausted bird from the family hedges. The owl, hooting bitterly, nipped his fingers sharply, as if to chastise him for the difficult delivery.

“Ow! C’mon, now, you could have just dropped it off with Gran--” Neville muttered sleepily, sucking on a sore fingertip. 

The owl turned its head away from him and stuck out a leg. Neville read the first two lines of the address with no small amount of shock. “Neville Longbottom, Beneath The Eastern Hedge …” 

His visitor hooted once more at him, a bit more amicably, then dropped the letter and took to the sky. Neville dove for the semi-battered envelope, but ended up simply falling on top of it in his efforts to snatch it up before it hit the ground. He rolled over, fished the letter out from beneath him, and stared at the wax seal pressed across its folds.

Neville let his breath out slowly, felt the wind in his hair and the sun on his face. A huge weight lifted from his shoulders--his back and neck relaxed, his tense nervousness melted away--the letter in his hands was weighty, heavy, reassuring. And _early._ He’d never been so happy in his life!

He closed his eyes for a long moment, imagining. Neville had never seen Hogwarts beyond the snapshots in the Daily Prophet, but he supposed it must be twice as fantastic inside as out. It was a castle on a beautiful glassy lake… he would be attending the school where his parents met, he would walk the same halls, and learn from the best teachers in England… surely if anyone could teach him magical proficiency, it would be the Hogwarts faculty! This letter was an invitation to be a success--he felt certain that once he arrived at Hogwarts, his pathetic magical predisposition would blossom into something Gran would be proud of. 

Gran would want to know immediately… would want to plan a celebratory dinner, owl all of her doting gray-haired friends, start counting their savings. Despite that, Neville couldn’t bring himself to move--he broke the letter’s seal, read over the first page with surprised tears in his eyes, ran his finger down the columns of school supplies and suggested readings. He catalogued the feeling in the back of his mind, storing away the ecstatic sensation, committing the first two lines to memory. He’d visit his parents, too, and read them the letter… maybe they would recognize the school, or the seal, or…

He exhaled, slowly.

Neville lay there in the grassy shade for nearly an hour, turning those new and exciting thoughts about in his mind, relishing his private victory. At last, as the sun sank behind the house, he carefully re-folded the letter, wedged it into the book he’d been reading, and turning towards home.

He burst into the kitchen, words tumbling out of him. “Gran, Gran, my letter came early! It’s here! It came! It came!!” 

Gran, sitting in her favorite rocker, rearranged her glasses on the bridge of her nose and gave him a long, gentle smile. “Of course it did, my boy. It’s _yours_. _I_ never had any doubt.”

She made him read it once, twice, then kissed him on the forehead and began chopping vegetables for their supper.


End file.
